


Amatus Parade Week 2016

by olliolli_oxenfree



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Amatus Parade Week, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Laughter During Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Mirror Sex, last chapter the inquisitor goes unnamed so you could slide your own in there if you wanted to, magic kink, no metaphors for dicks i call them what they are, other charas cameo but not enough to warrant a tag, realizations of feelings during sex, some of these might be rated e? i don't think they are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 16:41:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19213399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olliolli_oxenfree/pseuds/olliolli_oxenfree
Summary: A reposting of my old APW fills so they're in chaptered form rather than parts. Chapter titles are the prompts. Last time they were edited was 2016.A good amount of feels worked its way into the porn because that's just how these twoare.





	1. Make Out

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who gave kudos / commented on / _bookmarked (!?!?!?!?)_ the originals here on AO3 and on tumblr!
> 
> (I can't believe I'm giving up two parts that have over 800 separate views for this.)

_A matter of pride,_ Dorian had called it. This was showing off. Dorian’s hands dug into Darrell’s ass as the mage bit into his bottom lip and _tugged_. The sensation brought a moan to Darrell’s lips, which turned into a whimper as Dorian released his bite to bring the Inquisitor’s tongue back into his mouth.

This was _nothing_ compared to the few shared kisses they’d stolen time for in the past. At risk of sounding too much like Dorian himself, this made the rest of them seem positively _chaste_.

Dorian rolled their hips together, and Darrell groaned when Dorian’s cock rubbed his through the layers of clothing. Of course Dorian chose then to separate with a self-assured smile crooking his lips. “I think we shall leave it there. I do believe you are a man of your word.”

Laughing at the very elegant “Uh huh,” Darrell managed in response, Dorian turned— _oh Maker_ that tent in his robes was pure _sin_ —and disappeared down the steps. The sound of the door closing barely reached Darrell’s ears before his fingers were tugging his lacings open.

Right fist, not the left. He may do many things frowned upon by the Chantry, but profaning Andraste’s gift would not be one of them. “Come on, they’re _strings_. Who _designed_ these—ah!” He braced himself with one hand on the desk and began jerking his fist along the length of his cock. No time for fancy finger work or teasing touches, he just needed to _get off_.

Darrell bit the collar of his sleepwear, unwilling to admit to himself just how much Dorian’s kiss had left him a drooling simpleton. Of all things it was the memory of the mage’s cocky smile, lips swollen and lopsided, that made Darrell spill across the side of his desk with a gasp.

He took a few deep breaths to steady himself. Tucking his dick away, he knelt to clean the mess. At least none of it had gotten on the paperwork meant for his advisors. A flush rose to his cheeks as he considered just how little it had taken Dorian to reduce him to such a state. He hadn’t had such little control over his urges since he’d been a teenager. Though, it might have been for the best that he hadn’t taken up Dorian’s offer. It saved him from having Dorian be the one to point out his stamina problems.

And now he’d have to contend with a Tevinter mage completely and irrevocably confident in his ability to turn the Lord Inquisitor into a bumbling fool with little more than a snap of his fingers.

Darrell stood with a sigh and straightened out his clothing. This was going to be a _long_ indefinite.


	2. Casual

“This one?” Dorian asked, running a finger across a ridge of flesh on Darrell’s right side.

“Training,” he said in response. He rolled his hips up, making Dorian gasp as he tried to recall exactly _which_ training exercise had given him that particular scar. One from the fighting yard back at his childhood home in Ostwick, most likely.

“Most your staying injuries seem to be the ones you get from practice, Inquisitor.” Dorian rose, supple body still a breathtaking sight after a month of deciding abstinence was for the birds. They’d moved on from quick, fumbling fucks that saw them finished far too quickly and far too dressed for either of their liking. With the threat of Celene’s assassination no longer hanging over their heads, they had time to learn and explore one another.

Apparently, Dorian had never seen a man with scars before.

“That’s the point of practice.”

“Get hurt now so you don’t get hurt later?” Dorian bent back down to tweak his nose. “How boorishly Southern of you.” His hand didn’t leave, and Darrell felt two knuckles rub the break. “Another practice session?”

What little blood his erection could spare tinted his cheeks. “Fistfight with my sister.”

“Oh?” No man should be able to look that smug while grinding on a dick. “Did the Lord Inquisitor steal his sister’s dolls as a lad? _Tsk tsk._ The things they’ll say.”

Darrell’s flush deepened. “I wanted the same horse she did.” Might as well get it all out in the open. “We were twenty.”

“Twen—” Dorian blinked down at him, then began to laugh. A deep, throaty sound that started in the belly and tilted his head back.

“Dorian,” Darrell all but whined.

“ _Twenty_ he says,” the mage chortled. _Chortled._ “Oh, _please_ tell me she won the horse.”

“Of _course_ she won the horse. My _nose_ was _broken_.”

Dorian buried his mirth in Darrell’s shoulder, hand lightly slapping the other as though to find solidity to anchor him through this—truly—trying time. “The Lord Inquisitor,” he gasped, “lost a fistfight—over a _horse_.”

“I’d _really_ rather not talk about my twin while my cock’s in your ass.” Nice as hearing Dorian laugh so freely _was_. Dorian seemed to think his current amusement ranked higher than his pleasure. He slid forward enough so Darrell’s cock was, technically, no longer in the way of their conversation.

“What—Maker—What breed was it?”

They were _really_ putting sex on hold for this.

“An Orlesian Courser. Kendra likes riding her during estrous to distract stallions. Says it's fun watching chevaliers struggling to keep their mounts in check.”

“Is it?”

“It _would_ be if I were _riding the mare_.”

“Then you’ve invited the wrong man to your quarters.”

Darrell’s head hit the pillow with a groan. Trust Dorian to not let the _worst_ of word choices slip his notice.

“Could you not have shared the fun?”

“You don’t know the look she gets,” Darrell rolled them over so Dorian was beneath him, languid and spread comfortably atop the sheets as a king on his throne. “The mare comes from a line almost as long as our own. She wouldn’t share that horse if Andraste herself commanded it.”

Dorian let out a contemplative _hmm_ as he raised a hand to scratch at Darrell’s stubble. “You speak far too often of women with me in your bed, Inquisitor.”

“Had your fun, then?” Darrell couldn’t resist lowering his head as Dorian’s fingers roamed from his jaw to his chin.

“I’m trying to get back _to_ the fun.”

“Ah.” What started as simple recognition turned into a moan when Darrell pushed his hips forward, sliding back into Dorian and finding rhythm halfway where his thrusts met Dorian’s lifts. When he came some breathless eternity later, shoulders shaking and Dorian’s nails dragging red furrows down his back, Dorian’s name was carried on more than a whine.


	3. Kinks

Darrell gasped as swirls of ice traced across his chest and down his stomach, following the pattern of Dorian’s fingertips. The mage pressed his hand flat against Darrell’s skin and the cold turned to heat just this side of burning. The change in temperature drew a hiss from Darrell which Dorian responded to with a laugh. Darrell’s fists threatened to tear the sheets in their grip.

“Too much?” Concern was present in Dorian’s voice, but so was the playful mockery he adopted when he found yet another one of Darrell’s weak points.

Darrell had to swallow twice before he gathered enough of his voice to answer. “Hardly.”

Dorian’s cockiest of grins slid into place. “Oh? We’ll have to fix that.” His hand, back to a natural temperature, grabbed Darrell’s leg by the ankle. It was dragged up and over Dorian’s shoulder, and Dorian’s free hand began tracing down the calf. The fingers heated as they trailed into the crook of the knee and across the underside of the thigh.

They were scorching by the time they reached Darrell’s ass.

“Hmm?” Another check as Dorian rubbed against the oil already there. He did not prod, and despite his initial trepidation at having magic deliberately enter the bedroom, Darrell couldn’t think of a better thing for him to do.

Not trusting himself to speak, Darrell met Dorian’s gaze and gave a nod. His head hit the pillow with a strangled cry as the heat from the intruding digits engulfed him. It was simultaneously too much and not enough. His hips bucked upwards of their own volition as he sought more of the sensation. His arms refused to loosen their grips on the sheets, so his legs made up the difference by locking tighter around the mage.

Dorian kissed the inside of his levitated knee. “Think you could come from just this?” His fingers pressed against Darrell’s prostate. Had he not been gasping so hard, Darrell would have screamed. Maybe he did. “Want to try?”

“ _Maker_ , yes.”

“The blaspheme you spew,” any shame Darrell might have felt was promptly put out by Dorian curling his fingers once more. “Andraste’s holy chosen.”

And he’d gladly do it, again and again, if Dorian was the one he blasphemed with. He meant to say something along those lines, but it came out a high-pitched moan.

“I wonder,” and Dorian slowed his fingers just enough that Darrell might have sobbed. “Care to try one more thing?”

“G—” he caught his breath. “Go ahead.”

Dorian leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and that was worth far more than any amount of magical fingers. Then he noticed the sparks. Not the ones generally accepted when one was attracted to another, but actual _literal_ sparks.

_Oh._

Darrell threw his head back with a shout. Stripes of cum painted his stomach. He gasped for breath, slowly winding back into his skin.

“I thought you might like that.” Dorian lowered Darrell’s leg and wiped his fingers on the bedding.

“Give me a few minutes. We’ll find what makes you explode."


	4. Favorite Position

He enjoys all the many ways they do this, but he prefers the moments when Dorian is atop him. Body flushed and titled back on display. Sometimes Dorian will support himself with his hands on Darrell’s chest; other times with his hands behind for better leverage. Darrell’s hands are always roaming. One on Dorian’s hip to steady the mage, the other either rubbing soothing tracks up and down a thigh or in a loose grip along Dorian’s cock. Sometimes one—or both—will travel up to tease a nipple. Dorian always spares a hand to wrap over Darrell’s on his chest. He guides the touches to be what he wants. Darrell is only too happy to oblige.

“Can you—” Dorian clears his throat. Removes his hand and bites the knuckles. It’s to keep himself quiet, and Darrell wonders what it will take to convince the mage that here it is alright. Two men can be as loud and open as they wish during sex and the worst thing to happen will be a raised brow. He will gladly give whatever that is. For now, he keeps his touch gentle and murmurs for Dorian to continue.

“Can you— _ah_ , fuck. Harder.”

He can do that.

He shifts his weight, holds Dorian by the hips and brings his legs up so if Dorian leaned back they would touch. Darrell tightens his grip. Lifts Dorian just enough so they almost part. Then brings Dorian back down as he thrusts.

The noises Dorian makes are the most beautiful sounds in the world. Darrell repeats the motion, making sure to get Dorian’s prostate. This is the reason he loves to hold Dorian like this. The look on the man’s face: like it would be too much if it weren’t so damn perfect. He loves to watch the rapid heaving of the chest, trace the paths sweat makes across the plains of Dorian’s stomach.

Oh, and how he loves it. Truly, truly _loves_ it.

Maker.

“ _Dorian._ ”

Dorian comes arched against Darrell’s legs. It lands across Darrell’s chest, and he spares it but a glance before he slides Dorian off his cock. Dorian whimpers at the sensation. The mage still manages to find enough strength in his legs to lean down and give Darrell an open-mouthed, panting kiss full of little sounds—“ _ah mm_ ”—that kindle a heat somewhere above Darrell’s gut.

“I’ve got you, Dorian.” Darrell runs a hand through Dorian’s hair as the mage moves down to mouth at his neck. “I’ve got you.”


	5. Favorite Location

Darrell's list of places he can hide from dignitaries is growing smaller. They’re a fungus, spreading to all but the most hidden refuges of the fortress. The only exceptions to what public places they aren’t willing to venture are the mage tower—for obvious reasons—and the undercroft. He's quite positive the only reason they haven’t completely taken over the rookery is because of his spymaster. Any place Leliana resides is bound to be avoided by any scheming noble worth their salt. He still isn’t entirely sure she couldn’t have taken care of the threat to Celene single-handed. Perhaps she did, and just let him assume he’d been acting of his own accord. The thought is…disturbing.

On the plus side, however, her shroud of protection extends down to the rotunda. Which he is grateful for, since he needs uninterrupted access to both spymaster and Fade expert. And he’d be a fool to ever stop appreciating the ease it lends his nighttime visits to the library.

Dorian hardly needs reminders for silence, but Darrell gives it nonetheless. Anywhere else he would encourage the noise, but the thought of either Leliana or Solas confronting him for their lack of sleep is not a pleasant one. He noses along the hem of Dorian’s pants, kissing Dorian’s hardening cock through the layers of clothing as his fingers start on the laces.

“You should come to bed sooner,” Darrell notes as he pulls Dorian’s erection free of his smalls.

“When the books are such fine company? You think too highly of yourself, Inquisitor.”

“Do I?” Making sure Dorian is comfortably seated, he tugs the garments off and positions Dorian’s legs over his shoulders. “Can’t imagine what makes me think I’m debauched enough for this.”

“Nor I.” Dorian cards his fingers through Darrell’s hair. He leans into the touch, kissing the inside of one of Dorian’s thighs. Dorian lets him remain there as long as he likes. When he nips the skin more than once without the fingers tightening or pulling he knows he will be setting the pace tonight. That’s more than fine. Blowing someone isn’t high on his list of sex acts to avoid, but it’s not something he’d do every night.

He wraps his hand around Dorian’s cock and begins to stroke. A few more sucks to ensure he leaves a bruise on the skin, and he leaves the thigh in peace. Dorian’s smile is fond, but belies the urgency in his gaze. Darrell keeps eye-contact as he leans forward and licks the head. Dorian’s hips jump at that, and they don’t keep still as Darrell licks and sucks his way down Dorian’s cock. His hand keeps pumping as he pays particular attention to Dorian’s balls. He pulls them into his mouth, reveling in the low grunts Dorian isn’t quite keeping in.

He gives another soft “shh” as he lifts his head. He kisses the tip of Dorian’s cock and opens his mouth around it. Goes down about halfway and starts bobbing. What his lips can’t reach he continues to stroke with his hand. The left one which, they’ve discovered, when applied the right way _tingles_.

Dorian warns him with a tug on his hair and ankles crossing over his back. Darrell hollows his cheeks once more before pulling off. Dorian’s having problems stringing two words together, and Darrell takes well-earned victory in knowing he’s finally gotten to the point he can return the favor.

“ _Ama_ —!” Dorian bites his knuckles to cut himself short as Darrell tugs once, twice, three more times and catches Dorian’s cum in his marked hand. For a moment, they simply breathe.

Dorian loosens his grip and resumes stroking Darrell’s hair. “I do hope you’ve remembered the handkerchief this time?” he asks, and Darrell has to smother his laughter in Dorian’s stomach.


	6. Accident

Daylight travel in the desert is too brutal, as are nightly ventures when temperatures plummet. They make up the difference by camping during the two extremes and acting in the dawn and twilight hours. Darrell lies stretched out in the tent, a cloth band in his mouth to keep him quiet. Sounds carry anywhere they camp, but in the Hissing Wastes they carry _far_.

The blazing sun overhead turns the tents into so many furnaces. Even before they begin Darrell is covered in sweat. Yet Dorian is still fully clothed. Something Darrell would be quick to rectify if he didn’t have a frost spell running down his naked torso.

He bites back a whine as the hand stops short of his stomach and begins to trace back up his ribs. His teeth clamp down on the gag and his back arches to press firm against the touch. He does realize his growing impatience, but it seems to matter little when Dorian’s hand _won’t speed up_.

Dorian chuckles at the jerky movements. “Now, now. Patience _is_ a virtue.”

Darrell considers for one brief moment removing the gag and telling Dorian to stuff his patience— _along with your cock if you_ don’t _mind_ —right up Darrell’s ass. Then the tent glows green as his left hand crackles, and one of the scouts screams.

He scrambles up at Cassandra’s shout of “Demons!” while one hand wrenches the gag away and the other pulls up a sheet to cover his waist. He reaches for his sword and realizes there’s a worse part to this mess: it's two-handed.

_Shit._

There’s a roar of fire from outside as Dorian unleashes an attack. Modesty is probably the better part of valor. It will be awkward, especially with the sword in his off hand, but he’ll manage.

Luckily, the demons aren't many. His scouts are sharp, and they mostly just need him to close the rift. Though it will be a long time before he can look back on this and think of _luck_.

“Looking good, boss!”

“ _Thank you_ , Bull.” Somewhere behind him, Sera cackles.

Cassandra gives the sheet a look of utmost disgust.

The ties of the tent flaps are knotted together when he returns. “Wh— _Dorian_!” He drops his blade, hiking up the sheet to cover his ass.

“I want to see if you freckle!”


	7. Point of View

There is a mirror in Inquisitor Trevelyan’s chambers. It is no eluvian, though it certainly has the dimensions of one. The Inquisitor uses it for trivial matters: checking his hair, cleaning his teeth, _getting dressed_. It usually sits in a corner between the bathing room and the desk, so far out of the way it’s almost on the balcony.

Sometimes, though, the mirror moves. The Inquisitor will drag it near the edge of the bed. Dorian isn’t one for sappy speech or ridiculous metaphor; but when the Inquisitor positions the mirror _just so_ , it becomes magic.

The Inquisitor spreads him open on display. No restraint is needed beyond the Inquisitor’s hands and knees. The knees don’t even pin him, just rest beside his on the bed. Wherever they shift Dorian’s follow, desperate for the slightest touch. One of the Inquisitor’s hands stays wrapped around his wrists, holding them in place at the small of his back. The other rests on Dorian’s throat. Not enough to choke, barely enough to be felt when he swallows, but enough to redirect Dorian’s gaze should it wander.

Once, Dorian’s gaze wandered quite frequently. Either away from the reflection or closing off entirely to better handle the sensations that border on too much. He has, however, always possessed a vain streak. One the Inquisitor is only too willing to indulge in, and may have indulged too much with the ease he now keeps Dorian in place. He is quite a marvel to watch; chest heaving and sweat making trails down the length of his body. Should he get too overwhelmed, there is always the Inquisitor.

Dorian finds the true wonder of the spectacle over his shoulder. The Inquisitor sometimes has his eyes closed, sometimes not. He’ll keep steady eye-contact in the mirror as he licks, kisses, and bites his way across Dorian’s neck and shoulders: lips and teeth catching on the chain of Dorian’s family amulet. He never stops moving his hips either, brushing Dorian’s prostate with each thrust.

It’s almost too much. It _is_ too much when the Inquisitor releases his wrists to tweak at a nipple, slide the hand down light enough to tickle and wrap it around the base of his cock. Dorian whines, head thrown back as he bites down on the word that would bring a crashing end to this fantasy. He is safe in Skyhold, safer here where the Inquisitor holds him. Too safe, perhaps, as the word keeps threatening to slip free.

He loses the syllables in the whimpers the Inquisitor draws from him. The sounds slip to breathless gasps as the Inquisitor twists his wrist in tandem with his thrusts. He has been teetering on the edge for too long, and as he throws his head back to shout his release it transforms halfway and he cries the word so loud his throat turns raw.

“ _Amatus!_ ”

The Inquisitor slumps forward as Dorian falls back. It would be nice to simply support one another as they recover, but now that it’s been uttered it _can’t stop_ and Dorian turns around, hands reaching for the Inquisitor and pushing him down so they lie atop the mattress. He cradles the Inquisitor’s head and holds him near, breathing _beloved_ into every open-mouthed kiss.

A hand comes up and strokes his hair while he moves down. He sucks and bites the Inquisitor’s neck, marking _amatus_ there for all to see. Now he’s done it. Once the Inquisitor regains his sense of self he’s going to ask the most _awkward_ questions. He might even have them answered. After all…

Dorian’s become a unicorn.


End file.
